


guilty pleasure

by flirtingwithtrackers



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Mild Smut, Teacher!Bellamy, Teacher-Student Relationship, artist!Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtingwithtrackers/pseuds/flirtingwithtrackers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>clarke accidentally fucks her gsi, and then not so accidentally does it again</p>
            </blockquote>





	guilty pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> a (late) birthday present for the wonderful [bellsqueen](http://bellsqueen.tumblr.com)
> 
> and a big thanks to [lackingstealth](http://lackingstealth.tumblr.com), as always, who makes my fic so much better
> 
> fyi: gsi is a graduate student instructor, like a ta, usually grades essays/tests/etc
> 
> ENJOY :))

They meet in a hole-in-the-wall bar at the end of the main street that runs into the campus, their hair damp with sweat and alcohol on their breath. Clarke is out to have a good time, taking advantage of the free week ahead of her before her third year of college begins to have a little fun. Raven works at a the bar, her long dark hair always pulled back into a ponytail that swings behind her easily as she serves drinks. Clarke finds a seat quickly, sitting down in between some guys waiting for Raven to finally notice them. Raven must have seen her come in, because she has a vodka cranberry ready and on the bar only a few seconds after Clarke sits down.

“Hey there, hot stuff,” Raven says, winking at her playfully. Clarke rolls her eyes with a laugh, sipping at her drink. Her friend turns her attention to the man next to her and she lets her eyes follow as well. He is handsome—bronze skin, an easy (if slightly intoxicated) smile, and deep, dark eyes. Clarke just started to notice small freckles across the bridge of his nose when Raven talks, startling her. “What can I get you?” 

“Another round of stout,” the man says, gesturing towards a table in the back.

Raven nods at her, _duty calls_ written across her face, as she heads down to the other side of the bar. Clarke side-eyes the man next to her, watching as he taps his fingers along the bar. She didn’t miss the way his gaze falters, eyes leaving the dark cherry wood to follow the long line of her legs down to the shiny black strap of her heels. She uncrosses her legs to shift towards him and he quickly turns away. He looks up at her a few moments later and Clarke smiles.

She had intended on waiting on the crowd that usually shows up at the small bar, getting a little drunk, and finding someone cute to dance with—maybe a quick hook up in the handicap stall or a pretty girl to take home. But if she can skip the first few steps, this guy can definitely convince her to do so. So she throws in the bait.

“Having a good night?” she asks, her finger running along the rim of her tumbler. She smiles widely, baring her teeth. Later he’ll tell her this was the moment, the moment he fell in completely, with no hope of getting out.

Two drinks, a warm hand on her upper thigh, and a wink at the bartender—who may have catcalled behind them—later, and they are outside the bar, trying to figure out who lives closer. Bellamy (his name is Bellamy, a grad student, he’d said) hooks an arm around her shoulders and leads her towards his apartment, only stopping at intersections to drop messy kisses to her lips before crossing the road. She retaliates by nipping at his neck, her lips dragging along his skin as he struggles to open his front door. She only laughs at his frustrated groan, sneaking her hands up his t-shirt, fingers exploring the toned muscle underneath. He all but carries her to his bedroom, her thighs wrapped around his waist and his fingers digging deliciously into the bare skin of her shoulders.

Clarke wakes up to strong arms around her, dark curls tickling her temple, and a smile on her face. She is debating whether or not she should leave before Bellamy wakes up but doesn’t have to make a choice when his embrace tightens, his lips pressing behind her ear, making her sigh. They spend the morning together before Clarke gathers her things, puts her phone number into his contacts, and presses a firm kiss to his lips on her way out.

They meet up a few times that week, Clarke usually dropping by his place for a few hours. Things are casual, _fun_ , a way to kill time before school starts and plenty of orgasms for the both of them. But then everything comes to a screeching halt when they run into each other in _History of Art 62: Introduction to Italian Renaissance Art_ taught by Professor Dante Wallace.

Clarke walks to the front of the classroom, looking for a good seat, when she sees a familiar mop of black hair. She smiles, until she realizes he shouldn’t be in a undergraduate course. She is about to go over to him when the professor clears his throat in the mic, signaling everyone to sit down. Everything comes to a stark realization when Bellamy is asked to stand, alongside the other graduate student instructors for the course.

They aren’t classmates.

+++

They come to the mutual decision that they shouldn’t see each other anymore, for obvious reasons. After all, it had only been a week of hook-ups and a little cuddling on the couch while watching shitty made-for-tv movies. They barely even know each other. And now he is her GSI, responsible for grading her papers, not fucking her up against the front door of his apartment. It’s fine, if a little awkward, but _fine_. 

Their shared enthusiasm for the subject, though hers is more artistic and his more historic, helps mull over the transition from lovers to a more professional relationship. Clarke drops by his office hours as often as she can between her other classes, enjoying their conversations about Ghiberti and _the Gates of Paradise_ while she valiantly tries to smash down the warmth that spreads up her chest whenever he smiles at her over the small table of the coffee shop just across the street from campus. She loves listening to him talk about the course material, the way he can’t stop smiling as he tells her all about the historical context, sometimes getting lost on an adorable tangent. His cheeks turn a deep red whenever he notices, laughing nervously before getting back on topic. Clarke often spends more time in office hours than she needs to, using the excuse that _more_ knowledge surely can’t be a bad thing.

She isn’t sure if she’s reading into things, imagining the way his hand moves like it’s going to touch her arm before it falls back onto the table, or the way he leans in closer, talking almost in a whisper as he shares an art pun or mocks Professor Wallace, laughing heartily as he pulls back. Maybe that’s just Bellamy, how he is around everyone. All of the students in her class love him, he’s charismatic that way—a bit of an ass but passionate about the subject, with a love for the material that radiates off him and fills most of his students with the same desire for knowledge. And many students find him attractive, whispers Clarke can hear in the few moments before class begins when Bellamy saunters down the middle aisle in a t-shirt that fits him way too well. So she tries to stop the hammering in her chest every time she sees that nod of acknowledgement he gives her whenever he sees her enter the coffee shop before turning back to the student at hand. She waits patiently, trying not to analyze his interactions with other students as she orders her usual iced white mocha. 

Clarke is talking about proportion today, the well-balanced work of Giotto. She doesn’t realize she’s rambling on about technique and style until he laughs, a sound that catches the words in her mouth.

“Sorry,” she says, blushing. “I got a little carried away.”

“No, no,” he rushes to say, eyes bright. “You’re an artist,” he says with a shrug so simple, like that explains everything. Clarke’s heart clenches in her chest. He looks at her expectantly, like he wants her to continue.

“You remembered,” she finally says, a small smile of her face. She panics soon after, realizing she brought up the _before_ , something they probably shouldn’t be thinking about at the moment, let alone discussing. But all her anxiety is silenced when he smiles back, his words easy in the air.

“Of course I remembered. I never did get to see any of your paintings, though.”

She knows it was a bad idea the second it pops into her head, but it doesn’t stop her from saying, “You can always come by and see them.” He looks hesitant and Clarke scrambles to recover. “I mean, you do have _some_ authority on the subject. And I could always use an outsider’s opinion.”

They both know it’s a terrible idea, but Bellamy smiles and nods anyway.

+++

Bellamy stands outside the front door to her apartment, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck nervously. He should _not_ be here, should not be visiting a student at her apartment, but it’s Clarke and he couldn’t say no. He misses her—the way she breathed his name into her ear when they were wrapped in each other, how her fair skin felt under the caress of his fingertips, her unabashed laughter. He misses the way her eyes would light up whenever he should her a painting he’d think she’d like, even though it wasn’t in the curriculum, or how she’d try to sketch him on lazy mornings when he’d lay out on the couch, her little pink tongue sticking out in concentration. He really misses cuddling with her on the couch, how she’d shove her cold, little toes in between his calves to warm them up. He tried to stay away, distance himself, but his heart still races whenever he sees her, his hands itching to reach across the table and touch her. He shouldn’t be waiting there. He should turn around and walk back to his own apartment. He should have never agreed. But he did and he is. 

She smiles brightly as she opens the door, hair pulled back into a messy bun and a swipe of light blue paint on her cheekbone. “You made it,” she says, her cheeks tinged a lovely pink.

All doubts flee, the empty space quickly filled with affection as Bellamy follows her back to the room she uses as a studio. He slowly catalogues the spots of paint all over her—in her hair, on her clothes, smeared on her skin—trying to memorize this new side of Clarke. She looks a little nervous as she opens the door, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she turns around to face him.

“Here goes nothing,” she says, laughing nervously. The sunny room is filled with canvases, some blank, some filled with nothing but color, others of portraits, landscapes, still life. An easel is set up near the back wall, rows of paint on shelves in the corner. The room is filled with life and color—filled with Clarke. She looks so at home, though a little nervous, in the small studio, her fingers caught loosely around a paintbrush. 

She is showing him her latest painting, one of the prettiest buildings on campus. The gray building is bathed in a hazy blue, as though it was a part of the sky, as though it could float away. Her hands are moving quickly in front of her as she talks, telling him about the process and how she submitted it for an exhibition at an art gallery nearby.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispers, standing just behind her shoulder.

“Really?” She spins around quickly, a grin on her face. She nearly knocks him over before his arms reach up, bracing her shoulders to steady them both. The smile on her face falters when he doesn’t move away, her lips falling open. Bellamy watches intently as her tongue runs along her bottom lip, very aware of the warmth of her skin tingling under his palms.

He almost pulls away, his hands slipping down her shoulders, fingers loosely gripping her forearms. He just has to let go, walk away, leave the room. But she moves closer to him, stepping forward, her eyes trained on his own. Her gaze drops to his lips and he moves forward, his head ducking down until his lips are pressed to her own.

Their combined sigh of relief fills the room, the familiarity of one another’s skin filling their senses. His thumb smooths over the paint on her cheek, smearing it further across her skin. His other hand moves to the small of her back, quickly closing the distance between them until he can feel her pressed up against him.

She laces her fingers behind his neck, pulling him down to her level. She staggers back, tripping over a canvas on the ground. Bellamy is quick to chase her lips, trying to shove all feelings of guilt into the darkest crevices of his mind, guilt he’ll deal with later when Clarke Griffin’s hands aren’t sneaking up his shirt, her delicate hands tracing the lines of her chest. He shivers against her, revels in the little laugh against his lips. She bunches the material in her hands, pulling it off over his head before taking off her own, tossing them both to the ground. His lips seal over a sensitive spot on her neck as she reaches for his belt, fingers fumbling with the clasps.

“Your bedroom?” Bellamy asks into her skin.

“Down the hall.”

He leads the way, smiling back at her, a warmth filling his chest and running down his limbs at the sight of her—her chest and cheeks pink, the smooth curves of her breasts, the joyful smile on her face. He pushes her back on the bed, quickly following, his lips pressing to her soft skin. Bellamy removes their clothing, his lips hungrily following the newly revealed skin as he tugs off her jeans, trying to memorize the feel of her underneath him as though it is the last time.

He tries to convince himself that it is, that this would be the goodbye fuck, the last one before they move on, now that they know it’s the last. But as she moans and writhes underneath him, her fingernails pressing almost painfully into his skin, he knows he’ll never get enough. Not enough to end it. The guilt runs cold under his skin, only to be quickly soothed by the sound of Clarke saying his name, the way she pants into his neck.

Her lips make burning trails over his skin, hot kisses pressed to his neck, his shoulder, his jaw. He feels nothing but relief and something too close to _home_ when he finally pushes into her, his forehead dropping to hers as he lets out a sigh. She moans, her heels pressing into his lower back, and he never wants to forget the sound.

+++ 

A few weeks into the semester and Bellamy still isn’t tired of waking up to a knot of blonde hair in his face. He’s already been awake for a few hours, as usual, and Clarke’s asleep in his bed, the dark gray of his sheets tangled around her limbs. Bellamy had been reading his book, sitting in bed beside her, and she started stirring, stealing his attention. He sets his book down on his bedside table before turning to her, a soft smile of his face. She makes small noises, little groans as he brushes his thumb across her cheekbone as he leans over her on the bed. She rouses from her slumber, bleary blue eyes looking up at him and a little scowl on her face. It disappears as Bellamy kisses her nose, then her cheeks, her forehead, before setting his lips over her own.

She sighs into his mouth, into their lazy kiss, and he enjoys the way she feels underneath him—soft and warm. He places a hand on the side of her neck, his thumb curving around her jaw, deepening their kiss with a new angle. She licks into his mouth eagerly, hands moving up to cradle his face as his hands start to wander. He slowly loosens the sheets wrapped around her. His light caresses down her sides have her breath hitching in her throat and her nails scraping against the nape of his neck. His fingers just reach her inner thighs when she’s pulling away breathless and his hand retreats.

Clarke arches her neck to speak while he noses into her neck. “As much as I would love a round two,” she starts.

Bellamy nips at the soft skin. “Three,” he says smugly against her jaw.

She continues as though he didn’t say anything, but he can hear the smile in her voice. “I should probably get home.” He pauses in his ministrations, leaning back to look at her. “I have a project I should probably start, some reading to do,” she says in explanation. He frowns, turning away in an attempt to hide it from her.

Bellamy’s only been a GSI for two semesters now and he’s already fucking a student, _on the regula_ r. And a wonderful student at that, a student that has such passion and enthusiasm for the class, probably one of the only students who is taking a history of art class for their love of art and not for a course requirement. The first time he read one of her papers, he _almost_ regretted the first night they met, _almost_ wished it had been some other girl—a girl he could have forgotten about. But it wasn’t. It was this infuriating, blonde whirlwind of a girl he just can’t seem to let go of, no matter how much he knows he should.

“Have you already done the reading on Florence?” Bellamy asks, only cringing a little, leaning back so Clarke can sit up. He hates talking about class, but also he hates ignoring what takes up a majority of her life—being a full-time student and all. Her lips quirk into a half smile and he’s glad he made the effort.

“Yeah,” Clarke says, with a fond roll of her eyes. 

“Why don’t we meet up for coffee tomorrow after class?” He leans closer to her. “I’ll buy you one of those sugary drinks you love and we can pretend to talk about da Vinci.”

She laughs and the sound blooms warmth in his chest, shoving aside the guilt. “Or actually talk about da Vinci,” she says.

“Yeah, okay, nerd.” He doesn’t move fast enough to dodge the soft slap to his chest, too busy laughing at the mock offense on her face.

+++

Bellamy runs a hand through his curls, tugging at the ends. He’s waiting at the coffee shop—not their usual haunt, a source of confusion for Clarke, he’s sure. He curses under his breath when he sees her with an anxious smile on her face and a floral skirt twirling around her thighs. He still can’t help the smile that curls at the corner of his lips despite it all, still happy to see her. He straightens up as she walks towards him, trying to ignore the worried look on her face.

“Why did you pick this place?” she asks, looking around the small shop, at it’s ugly orange walls. 

“I was on this side of campus.”

“Okay,” she says tentatively. “What did you want to talk about?”

He looks down at the table, unable to keep eye contact. She looks apprehensive, confused, and Bellamy’s stomach works its way into a knot. He’s not sure if he can do this, but he has to. Their relationship has gone on long enough without incident but he’s terrified that won’t continue. Though there are technically no rules against it—it’s only heavily frowned upon—he’ll do everything in his power to protect them, to protect _her_. He can’t even imagine what would happen if they were found out—the terrible things that would be said, the possible repercussions on her academic integrity. Not to mention the authority he has over her. His stomach rolls at the thought, that she might feel _pressured_ to be with him, trapped with him in fear of academic retaliation. He doesn’t want to hold this power, to have her stay because she _has_ to. He wants her, wants her more than anything, but not like this. She’s so young, so full of life, and he refuses to hold her back.

His fingers run along the smooth edges of the table as he takes a few deep breaths. He can feel her anxiety build, can imagine the frown on her face. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking one more breath, before looking her in the eye. “I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

Her eyebrows furrow deeply. “What?”

“I’m breaking up with you,” he says slowly, hoping his voice is steadier than he feels.

“And why is that?” He had expected her to be upset, but he never thought she’d be angry. He probably should have expected that possibility, he thinks as her cheeks pinken in frustration.

“We both knew this wouldn’t last forever, Clarke,” he pleads, hoping she’ll understand. He steels himself before speaking again. “This was just a good fuck, don't make it into more than it is.” It’s a punch to the gut, and he can’t even imagine how she feels.

“You don’t get to do this, Bellamy Blake. We both know it was more. I _want_ to be with you.” He isn’t surprised that she can see right through him, see the guilt coating his skin. But he never should have let this happen in the first place. He’s the adult—she’s only 20 years old, for fuck’s sake—he’s her superior, he never should have let it get this far. So he refuses to back down, even as Clarke’s eyes shine with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry, Clarke. I can’t.” He coughs, clearing the knot from his throat. “This has to end.”

She looks at him, eyes appraising. Bellamy has the overwhelming urge to look away, self-conscious under her scrutiny, but resists. Clarke lets out a sad sigh, shaking her head. She looks at him once more, chin raised determinedly. “Fine.”

And she leaves.

She stops coming to office hours. He only gets glimpses of her in class, watches as she takes her seat or chews on her pen, before feeling like a creep and quickly looking away. He still smiles proudly to himself when she answers questions correctly in class and Professor Wallace nods approvingly. Bellamy loves reading her papers, which are brilliant as always, showing her great attention to detail and passion for the subject. He can easily see the artist in her, even in her writing. There are always a few points he’s sure would have caused a bit of an argument in office hours and it makes him miss her even more. He tries not to let his biased judgment affect his grading, but with her passion for the class, it’s not hard for him to pass her with flying colors. 

+++

Clarke tries to get through the rest of the semester with as little contact as possible, going to Professor Wallace’s office hours instead. She understands why Bellamy ended it—unable to ignore the swell of relief that washed over her when he broke it off, the possibility of getting caught now extinguished—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t angry about it. He had no right to make this decision without her, _for her_ , to decide what she did or did not want. But she respected his wishes, didn’t fight him on it. It doesn’t stop the ache of seeing him, though, however minutely. She can’t help but peek over the rows in front of her, looking for the familiar mop of unruly curls, turning away quickly when he shifts in his chair.

She tries not to think about how he’s holding up—if Octavia finally came to visit, if his thesis is moving along well, what he thinks about Titian. She tries to forget how gentle he was with her, how his hands dragged across her skin with something close to reverence, how he’d press a kiss to her forehead when she woke up briefly before he went into the kitchen to make breakfast, how his hands wound tightly around her hips when he found her sitting at his counter late at night doing homework before pulling her back to bed. She misses the way his lips felt against her own, the heat that would pull at her core when he’d look at her with a heated gaze, but she tries to forget about it. She tries not to think about how much easier his life must be without her, no need to sneak around, no need to worry if someone saw her come up. Clarke never even expected to like him so much, just some guy she met at a bar, some great sex. But she does, she likes him. _A lot_.

The rest of the semester goes by slowly, a smoky, dull haze of writing papers, labs, and painting when she can (which isn’t often). She turns in her final art history paper on Veronese with a sigh of relief. Eager to leave the class behind her, she leaves Wallace’s office before she has any chance of running into Bellamy. She doesn’t account for him being in the hallway, his hair a mess and his hands full of papers that were turned into him at office hours. Clarke quickly diverts her gaze when he finally looks up, noticing her for the first time. 

“Clarke,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

She nods curtly, trying to avoid his gaze. “Bellamy.”

They stand in the hallway, a few feet separating them as they appraise one another. Clarke takes in Bellamy’s frazzled appearance—his sweater covered in lint, part of the hem tucked into his jeans, reading glasses hanging from the v in his neckline. The pile in his arms is threatening to fall to the floor in a heap of blindingly white paper and paper clips. When she finally meets his eyes, she’s startled by what she finds there—unbridled longing, or so she hopes. He only looks away when his haphazardly stacked papers begin to teeter. Clarke doesn’t move to help him, just watches as he tries to readjust. 

“I should get going,” she says when he’s looking up at her again. She move self-consciously under his gaze, her hands smoothing her skirt and hitching her bag higher up on her shoulder.

“Right,” he says, disappointment lacing his tone. She nods, taking a few steps past him down the hall. She stops when he speaks again, his warm voice falling over her in a way that makes her ache. “Have a good break, Clarke.”

“You, too.” She only allows herself to look back when she reaches the end of the hallway, watching his back as he walks into Wallace’s office.

+++

Clarke lets out a heavy breath, staring at the ugly chipping paint of Bellamy’s front door. She probably shouldn’t be here, but she knows what she wants. And what she wants is Bellamy. Her flight home leaves in a few hours, but she just can’t bear the thought of waiting another month before telling Bellamy how she feels, regardless of whether he feels the same.

She knocks on the door twice, hoping he’s home. She sucks in a sharp breath when she hears movement in the apartment. There’s a quiet curse a few moments before the door opens.

“Clarke?” Bellamy says, his hand clutching a towel he had been drying his hair with. His darkened curls stick to his temples in little loops.

“Hi. Can I come in?” He looks hesitant, but still moves back to open the door a little more. “I’ll only be a second.”

He leads them into the living room, taking a seat on the sofa. He gestures to the couch, waiting for her to take a seat beside him, but she shakes her head. Her fingers curl together in her front of her as she stands by the arm of the sofa and she looks down at them, building up the courage to say what she needs to.

“I still want this.  Us,” she says firmly, staring him down and willing herself not to turn around and run out the door.  “I want _you_.”  Bellamy’s mouth opens to interrupt but she barrels on before he has a chance to say anything.  “Look, the semester’s over, and you’re not my GSI anymore so you can forget any of those bullshit misgivings you’d had about thinking you’d forced me into this somehow, or that I was only with you for my grades, or that breaking up was the best thing for me.  You don’t get to make that decision for me, Bellamy.  I do. And _I_ decide that I’m not giving up on us yet.  So,” she exhales, the fight drained out of her, “If you’re still in, if you still want this, too, then so am I.  I’m all in.”

His mouth closes and, practically sick from the nerves, Clarke watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Then he’s nodding, a small smile on his face. “Yes, yeah, I’m in.”

Clarke grins, but only for a moment before Bellamy is leaning towards her, his lips pressing against her smile until she’s kissing him back. He pulls away too soon, hand cupping her cheek and his eyes closed in contentment as he rests his forehead against hers.

“I like you, you idiot.” She laughs lightly. “Do you believe me now?”

“Yes, I believe you,” he says, nuzzling her nose with his. “I like you, too.”

She makes it to the airport with just enough time to check her bags and board her plane, but just barely. 

+++ 

He calls and asks her out on a date the second she’s back from break. He brings a small bunch of flowers when he goes to pick her up with sweaty hands and a nervous grin on his face. She answers the door in a pretty light blue sweater and Bellamy finds himself a little speechless, more than happy to find her smiling just as shyly. 

“Hi,” Clarke speaks first, her cheeks red. She leans forward to press a lingering kiss on his cheek.

“Hi,” he all but stammers, quickly holding out the flowers to her.

“Thank you.” She laughs, clutching the flowers in her hand. They stand in silence and Bellamy can’t help but lean in again, his lips smoothing over her own lightly. Clarke kisses him back eagerly. They only pull away when they hear someone clear their throat and they realize they’ve been making out in the middle of the hall in her apartment building, though neither seem to particularly care.

**Author's Note:**

> come cry with me on [tumblr](http://keywordlydia.tumblr.com) :))


End file.
